Remind Me
by whitefang3927
Summary: "John is in London and Sherlock's a rocket upon re-entry, burning." / The Great Hiatus, with a touch of reunion. S/J-ish. One-shot.


**Title**: Remind Me  
**Spoilers**: Incorporates elements from TBB, ASiB, and TRF  
**Pairings**: S/J...ish.  
**Rating**: T  
**Warnings**: References to drug use. Edging into mentally odd territory.  
**Wordcount**: 1105 (or, 221B x 5)  
**Summary**: John is in London, and Sherlock's a rocket upon re-entry, burning.

_A/N: So you know how John was like, "Do you just carry on talking while I'm away?" Here I have pushed that idea as far as it would go (and possibly farther)._

* * *

"You need to eat." The voice is gentle but insistent.

"Not now," Sherlock mumbles. "Have a lead."

"Sherlock, you haven't eaten in _two days_." Although Sherlock's head is down, he can picture John's expression perfectly: concern overlaid with frustration, and amazement that he has to say these things aloud at all.

"Just transport." Sherlock brushes the matter aside. "The case is more important."

"Nope. You not collapsing whilst you're running after some maniac is important. You can spare fifteen minutes to eat something." It's moments like these when Sherlock's reminded that John used to be a soldier with the gift of _command_, that trick of injecting certainty into his voice.

Sherlock gives in with ill grace. "Fine." He shoves himself up and drops by the first crêperie he sees. He is soon handed a crêpe filled with eggs and gulps it down as he pays and walks away.

"There. Isn't that better?"

Sherlock frowns, unwilling to admit to the spike of pleasure running down his spine as he bites into the pastry. "Come on," he says instead. "The meeting is at one."

John's laughter sounds softly in Sherlock's ear as he starts down Rue Saint-Georges. "You're human, too, you know. Don't forget that."

He refuses to respond, but the fondness in John's voice is worth the time lost in getting breakfast.

* * *

"You should get some sleep, Sherlock."

Sherlock shakes his head, dismissive. "Tonight might be the last chance before all the evidence is destroyed. There's no time for that."

"I really wish you'd stop doing that."

Sherlock hears the disapproval and looks up. "What?"

"Rationalising away your destructive behaviour. I know you're brilliant, and you can probably convince anybody that whatever you do _is_ the best course." Sherlock hides a grin at that. "But that doesn't mean you don't still _need_ sleep, Sherlock."

"I can always sleep when it's all over."

"Yeah, but it's never over for you. There's always the next case, and the next puzzle, and before you ever get to rest you're just going to burn up like a star that runs out of fuel, which would be a glorious and terrible tragedy."

"You're not a poet, John," Sherlock snaps. "So stop trying to be one."

"You're not invincible," is the reply. And then, more quietly, "Please. Just sleep. For a little while."

In that moment, John sounds so desperately sad. "John-" Sherlock starts, but he has no idea what he might say to make that note go away. "John. Don't. I'll sleep. For a few minutes."

"Will you?"

"Yes," Sherlock sighs and stretches himself out on the floor. "Will you wake me up?"

"Of course. In a bit."

* * *

Sherlock rips open the packaging and fumbles for the patch inside. Peeling off the backing, he presses the patch onto his forearm and tips his head back as nicotine trickles into his bloodstream.

"Five patches?"

"I can't _think_," Sherlock snaps. "I need them."

"In high doses, nicotine acts as a relaxant. Would you like a heart attack because your cardiac muscles have seized?"

"I'm perfectly fine."

"No, you're a 35-year-old male with a history of cocaine abuse."

Sherlock flinches. "I was careful."

"You were a junkie."

The condemnation in that last is so strong that Sherlock's eyes flash open. "I thought you weren't going to judge," he says, not caring if he sounds hurt.

"I'm not judging." Sherlock hears a hesitant sigh. "I...don't want you to die. I really don't."

"I'm not going to die," Sherlock says, and he tastes the lie fluttering on his tongue. He wonders if John can see the guilt that bleeds out from his entire being.

"Yes, you are," the words come back, light and easy. "And so am I. But I'd much prefer it if you didn't leave me behind."

"You're ridiculous," Sherlock grouses, but he rips off his fourth and fifth patches anyway. "There. Are you happy now?"

The answer is in the form of a chuckle. "As much as I can be."

* * *

Sherlock sends the last of the files with a deceptively quiet "click". For the first time in three years, he doesn't feel fear prickling at the back of his neck. His mind has no case to grapple with, no clues to fit together.

There's nothing. Moriarty's empire is finished.

He collapses back into his chair, boneless.

"You know," a voice says conversationally, "I usually frown upon drug-metaphors, but this is the best demonstration of a post-case crash I've ever seen."

"I don't know what to do," Sherlock whispers. "Do you know what it feels like to be trapped in a maze? But the walls are made of mirrors, and the same scene keeps flashing by again and again, and it _won't stop_ _and I don't know how to get out_."

"It's all right, Sherlock." And is that the light pressure of a hand in his hair? "You're going to be just fine."

Sherlock Holmes has always been an addict. He'd worked through the usual suspects (tobacco, heroin, cocaine) and chosen the adrenaline rush of crime-solving instead. Now, he suspects, he's grown dependent on something else.

"I thought I didn't," Sherlock murmurs, "I tried. John, I need-"

"Shh. I know. Come _home_, Sherlock."

"Home," Sherlock repeats, and then opens his eyes.

John is in London, and he's a rocket upon re-entry, burning.

* * *

John Watson is a doctor, and a soldier, and a writer, and _John_, and there are some things he knows how to do better than others.

He can tie a tourniquet under fire and shoot a man in the heart without a single tremble in his hand. He can paint a portrait of a man with deft strokes of words (but Sherlock's the only subject he turns his attention to). He can snark at the British government and ignore severed heads in the fridge.

Forgiving a dead man is not like any of these things.

_I hate you_, he wants to say. _For lying to me, for leaving, for three years of waking up and wanting you._

But he doesn't, because John Watson is not a cruel man. And besides, it's not quite true.

_I don't need you_, he wants to say. _It doesn't change anything, that you've come back, that you're standing right here all too pale, looking more scared than I've ever seen you before._

But he doesn't, because John Watson is not a man to let opportunities go by and regret them quietly, afterward.

"I missed you," he says. Because it's true. Because it's all he _can_ say. Because he's run out of words that mean exactly what he means, and no more.

Sherlock's answering smile is blinding.

* * *

_Reviews are love. And are loved._


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